


Sunlight

by thewritingotter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), But also, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Found Family, M/M, Touch-Repulsed Aziraphale, Touch-Starved Aziraphale (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), Yearning, so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27018538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewritingotter/pseuds/thewritingotter
Summary: It’s only been a couple of days since their first kiss (the memory of which is seared forever in Crowley’s infernal heart, something he knows he will never allow himself to forget -- not when it’s similarly the most amazing and frightening thing that’s ever happened to him), and while Crowley craves affection and hand holding and all of those soppy things demons aren’t supposed to be in want for, Aziraphale is drastically and very firmly on the other side. He’s stiff and unyielding, and even though Crowley is one of the few who are allowed to touch him, these instances are few and far between.-- Crowley and Aziraphale go on a much needed holiday after the Apocalypse That Didn't Happen.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 195
Collections: Tip Top Stories





	Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks misseditallagain!

It starts like this:

Crowley’s making a right mess of Aziraphale’s desk -- he may be in love but he’s still very much a nuisance at heart -- when Aziraphale appears quietly at his shoulder, soft and sweet. And there’s, well, not a weariness in his smile, but something about it doesn’t quite sit right with Crowley. 

He straightens up from his comfortable lounge, arranging his long limbs so they’re sat politely on Aziraphale’s armchair instead of sprawled all over his desk. “Angel, something the matter?”

“Erm.” The corners of Aziraphale’s lips tighten briefly in a small frown before the other man squares his shoulders, breathing in deeply as he runs his hands over already neat lapels. “No, ah. No.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “You sure?” he asks because, even though Aziraphale can be quite sure about books and food and beautiful footwear, he can also be quite unsure about important things. Like about Heaven and Hell.

Or about himself. 

“Well there’s-” Aziraphale starts haltingly. He clears his throat. “I-I’m, ah, no trouble really. None to be had here at least.”

Crowley frowns. He sweeps a hand across Aziraphale’s desk, pushing bits of torn table napkins and business cards from loan sharks and other con artists to the bookshop’s hideous carpet. “Come sit with me, angel.”

Aziraphale hesitates, a hand fluttering down and over his coat again. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to be a bother-”

“You’re never a bother,” Crowley is quick to reassure. He flushes at this little bit of honesty, coughing to hide his embarrassment. Aziraphale may be a lot of things, but he’s never been bothersome really, not when Crowley always seems to miss him so much. Patting the desk, he says again, “Sit, angel.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, but with a firm nod, he rests on the desk, his legs warm and soft where they brush against Crowley’s. His hands rest deceptively calm over his belly -- fingers twisting his ring ever so slightly -- and his blond head is bowed lower than Crowley cares for. 

“Angel.” He places a hand on Aziraphale’s knee, and the other man jerks at the touch. His whole body somehow physically shies away from Crowley from the way his leg stiffens to the almost imperceptible widening of his large eyes. His pretty hands hover over Crowley’s, hesitant and unwilling to bridge the gap between, before they slowly knot over his belly again. 

Oh, Crowley thinks, it’s _that_ sort of day. He draws his hand away as he leans away from Aziraphale.

It’s only been a couple of days since the _Great Switcheroo_ and their first kiss (the memory of which is seared forever in Crowley’s infernal heart, something he knows he will never allow himself to forget -- not when it’s similarly the most amazing and frightening thing that’s ever happened to him), and while Crowley craves affection and hand holding and all of those soppy things demons aren’t supposed to be in want for, Aziraphale is drastically and very firmly on the other side. He’s stiff and unyielding, and even though Crowley is one of the few who are allowed to touch him, these instances are few and far between. 

And then there are days like today where every touch sends Aziraphale into a flurry of flinches and grimaces.

Angels were bred to be soldiers, defenders of a world She’d long decided would be more important than Her first sons and daughters. They were taught to fight as soon as they existed, taught to make sure that every action had a holy and self-righteous purpose. They’d never quite understood what it was to touch frivolously, caress or pat or hold someone out of love or affection. 

Humans are different. They’re a passionate sort -- they love fiercely, they hate fiercely -- and there are so many touches in the middle. Amongst them, Crowley’d lost that infernal veil of numbness his people like to wear; that little bit between their demonic and human skins that mutes everything infernal beings feel until they’re left with nothing but echoes of human sensations. And now that it's completely gone, he basks in the loud messiness humans revel in. 

Crowley’s seen Aziraphale shed his own celestial veil bit by bit -- indulging in things angels aren’t supposed to -- but it’s still there, hanging over his bowed head like a heavy, burdensome curtain. He’d gone soft, but he’s never let that soldierly wariness go -- always ready, always aware, mind working and working and working even as he tries to indulge in his food and books. And the touches, well, if the only sort of touches one is used to are the ones Heaven doles out in warning, Crowley supposes he would dislike them too. 

He understands this. He does. And really, even though he loves Aziraphale so much he wants to wrap himself in every part of him, he’ll gladly take what he can get.

“You know,” he says lightly, “one can easily find a table free at the Ritz at this time of the day.”

A ghost of a smile lifts Aziraphale’s lips. “Is that so?”

“Mmhmm.” Crowley tilts his head at him, grinning up to his angel in what he hopes is in a very handsome manner. “Maybe the chef’s in a sudden mood to bake an utterly decadent german chocolate cake on this very rare occasion.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yes. Very much so. Some might say it’s quite a miraculous inspiration.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Tempting.”

“Shall we then?”

“I-” And just like that, the light in Aziraphale’s eyes flickers and dims. “I-I’m sorry, dear fellow, I’m afraid I’ve- well, that is to say-”

“You can just say no, Aziraphale,” Crowley says gently. He smiles at him when Aziraphale looks up in surprise. “It’s alright.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispers. 

Crowley shakes his head. “Tell me what you want,” he says because he’s weak and in love and all he wants to do is make his angel happy. “Tell me.”

“I-” Slowly, uncertainly, Aziraphale shifts so his leg brushes against Crowley’s in the barest of touches. “Can we just- can we just sit like this for awhile?”

“Of course,” Crowley says even though what he wants more than anything is to take Aziraphale’s hand and kiss it and press it against his forehead. “Of course.”

They stay like this for the rest of the night.

\---

Aziraphale can’t stop _cleaning_.

The bookshop, while its own special brand of untidy, has never been something Aziraphale fusses with. He loves the organised chaos of it, the complete disorganisation that annoys even the most patient of humans. Crowley knows this even though Aziraphale isn’t one to admit to it -- there’s a secret smug smile hidden in his strut, a certain pride in his upturned face when he surveys his bookshop.

But this, the fussing and dusting and sweeping. It’s alien to Crowley.

“Are we expecting company?” he asks Aziraphale when the angel passes by, a rag in his hands. Crowley’s seen him fuss before -- fingers flying over his neat head of curls, his fixed bowtie, his worn vest -- but not in this grand of a scale.

Aziraphale freezes, eyes so wide that the whites of his eyes completely surround the blues. His shoulders, which are always so round and soft that Crowley aches to sling an arm around them, are frighteningly stiff, and he’s clenching at the rag so tightly that Crowley fears he’ll rip it.

Slowly, carefully, he extends a hand, a question clear in his eyes. “Angel,” he says softly.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, a breath Crowley knows he doesn’t need curling in his wide chest before Aziraphale breathes out. Gradually, his shoulders soften, the grip on the rag loosen, and the pinched look on his face that’d been present since yesterday smooths into the gentle shell Aziraphale likes to wear.

“No, no company,” he clears his coat, turning away to wipe at the register Crowley’s draped next to, “j-just a spot of spring cleaning.” He sends a dim smile Crowley’s way, although it quickly fades at the sharp arched eyebrows. “You, ah, you know how it is.”

“It’s hardly spring,” Crowley says gently, hand still held out. 

“One can never have… never have too much cleaning.”

“Mmm, I suppose.” His fingers curl into themselves, and he lowers them, close by if Aziraphale were to have any need of them. 

“It’s long overdue, isn’t it? T-the bookshop, I mean,” Aziraphale babbles on, now aggressively wiping at the counter. Crowley’s never seen it gleam as much as it did now. “Since, ah, I suppose since I opened? Wouldn’t do to-”

The bells over the bookshop’s wide doors jingle cheerfully, and in the next breath, Crowley’s knocked behind Aziraphale, the angel wide and protective in front of him. There’s a dull letter opener in one clenched fist and a rag on the other, and a dangerous coiled tenseness in his shoulders. And even then, even through the fierceness in his angel’s eyes, Crowley can smell fear in him, can feel a tremor running through those strong arms and back. 

The old lady at the door stops just short of entering the shop. She fixes her glasses, squinting at their trembling forms. “Is this a bad time, dearies?” she asks.

“We’re closed,” Crowley calls out when Aziraphale remains silent and frozen. She frowns, but before she can say anything further, Crowley snaps his fingers. The sign outside flips to _closed_ and he’s sure she’s suddenly filled with the strong urge to head home. “Well, we are now.”

“Of course, of course.” She backs away as she mutters to herself, “did I turn the oven off today?”

The bookshop seems to dim as the doors swing close again, locking themselves with just a tiny bit of persuasion from Crowley. A long time ago, they might have resisted a little, maybe asked Aziraphale for some confirmation, but now that Crowley’s taken to visiting frequently, the bookshop had slowly decided that somehow Crowley’s a part of their home too.

(Crowley tries not to visit too much, leave Aziraphale the quiet and stillness he values. But then he’d remember fire and heat and the complete emptiness in his heart that Aziraphale had unconsciously carved out for himself, and he’d find himself driving to the bookshop as quickly and unsafely as he could.)

Aziraphale drops the letter opener first, the sound echoing across the room. His shoulders crumble and cave into himself, the slope of them sad and pitiful, and his hands hang useless against his sides. He looks like a puppet with cut strings.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers in the quiet.

Aziraphale turns around, tires eyes downcast and ashamed. He hesitates, his hand hovering and trembling just slightly out of reach from Crowley’s. “Crowley, I-” he sighs heavily. He drops it even as he steps closer to the taller man.

Crowley wants him so badly, wants to hold him so tight against him until whatever horrible thoughts are running through his angel’s mind will melt under the heat of his adoration for this brilliant being. Instead, he says, “I’m here, angel.”

“Always?” Aziraphale asks after a long while, voice small. 

“Always,” Crowley replies quickly, “ _always_ , always.”

Aziraphale steps so close to him Crowley can feel soft blond hair tickling his cheek. The angel places a hand over his, and Crowley fancies he can feel the softness of his palm even through layers of folded rag. 

\---

He should’ve seen the signs really.

They hardly leave the bookshop now, not when the very suggestion of it sends Aziraphale trembling. St. James is out of the question, even when Crowley knows Aziraphale’s missing the ducks, and so are the Ritz and Tadfield where Bookgirl and Nerdboy have both decided to stay. Any mention of Heaven or Hell or their respective coworkers sends Aziraphale babbling off to nowhere, and conversations about their future are deftly sidestepped.

It’s only when Aziraphale’d frantically finds him lounging in the cooler parts of the bookshop that Crowley realizes: 

It’s only been a week since _The Day They Didn’t Die_.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley says, rearranging his legs so they aren’t propped against the opposite bookshelf, folding them neatly. 

His heart breaks at the way Aziraphale calms his panicked breath with a hand over his heart, eyes still so wide and so blue and shimmery with distressed tears. “Crowley,” he croaks, “You’re here.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says softly, beckoning at him with a long hand, “come sit with me.”

Aziraphale doesn’t, but he shakily steps closer instead. “You weren’t there when I-” Another step. “I looked for you. And I couldn’t- I couldn’t find you.” He pauses, closes his eyes. “Sorry I’m. I’m being... difficult, aren’t I?”

“No,” Crowley says, “no, angel,-”

When Aziraphale opens his eyes again, they’re the clear blue Crowley’s so familiar with, and his heart aches. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. He smiles at Crowley, the edges of his mouth just shy of being happy. “It won’t- everything’s right as rain.”

“Angel,” he reaches out, fingers trembling, “I need-” _I need you to be alright_ , he thinks, but he goes on, “are you alright?”

Aziraphale’s face falls. “I- I don’t know.” He sighs heavily, head bowed. He shuffles closer, sliding down the bookshelf next to Crowley. They’re not as near each other as Crowley wants, the short gap between them seemingly wide and yawning, but still, he fancies he can feel Aziraphale’s shoulder pressed against his, his warm arm soft and comforting. He yearns to close the space between them, rest his head over Aziraphale’s soft curls, clutch at his waist.

Instead, he says, “We need to get out of the city, angel. Go out to the country.”

Aziraphale chuckles, soft and warm. “I’m not a delicate Victorian damsel beset with the vapors, Crowley.”

“No,” Crowley says, “but we can go on a holiday somewhere. Get a bit of sunshine away from all this doom and gloom.” _Away from the places that remind you of what might have been_ , he doesn’t say, but it hangs in the air between them.

“My darling serpent,” Aziraphale says like a fond caress. 

“Just you and me, angel,” Crowley says, “no one else.”

Aziraphale mulls this over, head tilted sweetly. Lord, Crowley thinks not for the last time, he is adorable. “And what will we do on this holiday?”

“Whatever you want.”

“What about you?”

Crowley frowns. “Me?”

Aziraphale turns to him. “What would you like to do?”

“Doesn’t matter.” 

Aziraphale opens his mouth, closes it again. His lips press into a thin line before he looks away again as his fingers fuss with his sleeves. “I wish you’d-” he pauses unsurely. Sighing, he goes on, “I’d like to know, anyway.”

“I just want to be with you,” Crowley blurts out. He feels his face heat up in embarrassment, and he coughs and clears his throat to mask his own deep flush.

“Oh.” 

“No need to make a big thing of it,” Crowley says lightly even as Aziraphale’s answering blush makes something in his chest purr with happiness. 

“Of course.” Aziraphale smooths his vest over his belly. “Can we spend all day together?” he asks softly, as if afraid anyone else would hear and take that away from him, “on our holiday I mean.”

Crowley grins so wide his cheeks hurt. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I’d- I would love that.”

Aziraphale’s small private smile feels like a kiss. 

\---

“When you told me we’re going out to the country, I didn’t think we were going to _Canada_ ,” Aziraphale says, a hand shading his eyes from the sun.

“I thought you- I mean- you don’t like it?” Crowley asks haltingly as he sets their bags down from the Bentley. The couple who lives a few blocks over were startled when a huge black car suddenly appeared out of nowhere in front of their summer home, but a small miraculous influence assured them that this huge black car has always been around the area.

“I do!” Aziraphale quickly reassures him. He slides a look to the small cottage in front of them before he turns back to Crowley. “It’s just… unexpected.”

“You know me,” Crowley says, hoisting a duffel bag over his shoulder and Aziraphale’s purse in one hand. They’ve no need for bags really, but Crowley’s always liked the look of them and Aziraphale packs books away as if they aren’t going back to the bookshop. “Always unexpected.” 

Aziraphale chuckles warmly. “That, you are.”

The cottage Crowley booked is shaped like a box, but he reckons that’s how cottages look in this part of the world. The short path is framed by wildflowers and little stones and gnomes, and even though it’s all so twee it makes Crowley’s teeth hurt, Aziraphale seems so charmed that it makes it impossible for Crowley to hate all this.

(He likes to think that he prefers dark, damp places like Hell, but sometimes he’ll see Aziraphale bathed in lovely orange and yellow hues in his dusty old bookshop, and Crowley thinks, yes, he much prefers this.)

“What is that?” Aziraphale asks, distracting him from the mums and the fat little bees that hover over them. When Crowley looks up, his angel is gesturing at a small black box next to the cottage’s blue door. He straightens up, patting at his trousers. He doesn’t allow his clothes to be dirty, but they’re a stubborn lot, these modern ones. 

He bends down when he reaches Aziraphale. “Complicated human contraption,” he says, long fingers examining its clean contours. “It’s to keep the keys for us while ensuring they won’t be stolen,” Crowley explains as part of it pops open to reveal numbers for some sort of code. “They haven’t got a receptionist like in a hotel lobby, you see, we’ve got to get the keys ourselves.”

“Clever,” Aziraphale says, and wanting to impress him even more, Crowley deftly types the code and the top part of the black box swings open to present the keys. Aziraphale titters, delighted, when Crowley takes them and wiggles them with what he hopes is a rakish grin.

He unlocks the door, opening it with an elegant flourish. “After you, angel.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes even as a pleasant blush remains on his soft face.

Inside, the cottage hardly looks like the box that it is outside. Across the door is the sitting room with a massive couch on one side and a just as massive telly on the other. Where the windows should be are clear sliding doors framed by heavy velvet curtains, and Crowley imagines he can see stars and fireflies at night even if they decide to stay in, sat on the couch with Aziraphale’s books. There are dvds and pictures of trees and flowers all around, and although it all seems so cluttered, there’s also something quite comfortable and sweet about it.

They turn left to the kitchen and dining room where a board proclaiming _Eat Love Laugh_ is hung on the wall, and little salt and pepper ducks sit on the bright blue table that looks very much like a bench and table one would find in a park. On the counter is a basket with packets of crisps and chocolate and a small blue envelope (Crowley reckons they’re going for a theme here, but he’s not complaining -- he quite likes blue).

Aziraphale takes it, sliding a fingernail underneath to break the seal. “ _Welcome to our home_ ,” he reads after having taken the little note out, “ _We hope this will be your home too for the summer. Please enjoy these treats!_ ” He smiles gently. “They signed it with stars.” 

Crowley leans over his shoulder. “Cute.”

Aziraphale beams at him, the effect so bright and unexpected that Crowley’s knees buckle a little. “Come on, old boy, I want to explore the rest of the property.” 

Crowley props himself up against the counter. “You go on ahead, angel,” he says weakly. “I-I’ve got to- the bags. Prep the room, yes.”

“Room?” Aziraphale says so, so lightly.

“Two beds,” Crowley says quickly. “I made sure.”

Crowley’s certain he’s unaware of it, but Aziraphale’s shoulders slowly relax from where they were hiked up to his ears. “I- of course, thank you.” He scratches at his neck, eyes sliding away. “You- would you like to join me outside later?”

“Of course,” Crowley says warmly. _Anything for you_.

That pleased blush is back on Aziraphale’s face. “I- yes. I’ll be… I’ll be waiting for you.” Quickly, and before it even registers in Crowley’s dusty old brain, Aziraphale darts up for a dry little kiss on Crowley’s cheekbone, before he disappears through the kitchen door with hardly a look back. 

It’s a while before Crowley breaks from his daze, and it’s with a stumble and a fierce blush on his face. He swipes at the basket, watching it and its contents spill on the floor. He may be in love, but he’s still a tough, naughty demon.

\---

When he emerges from the bedroom, he rights them on the counter again.

\---

That night, they sit outside under the stars. Aziraphale’d found a picnic blanket in the hallway cupboard, and Crowley had, by some _miracle_ , found perfectly aged and perfectly kept wine in the kitchen. The tin of biscuits that Aziraphale had brought with him to Tadfield is now between them, and the angel’s face is smeared with chocolate. Crowley roasts him marshmallows with his own firebreath ( _Quite personal, don’t you think?_ He says with a saucy little wink and Aziraphale calls him _cheeky_ for all his trouble), and he watches with fire-warmed eyes and limbs as Aziraphale hums around sticky fingers.

Fireflies dance around them and around the fire. Crowley’d seen them before, seen them created along with half the stars in the universe, but it still amuses him that they glow green and not yellow or red or even the blue of the hottest fires. When he points this out to Aziraphale, the other man just chuckles warmly. He’s one to talk -- he complained to Crowley once that it’s quite dreadful that moths only appear brown, to which Crowley had replied _they come in all sorts of colours, Angel, you haven’t gone from England in a while, haven’t you?_ Aziraphale had only huffed and muttered something about moth balls and vintage clothing in a disgruntled reply.

The air smells sweet with the coarseness of campfire, and nighttime music plays around them. The lake laps against their dock, the rhythm slow and hypnotic. Crowley imagines he can sleep like this: under the stars, warmed by their fire, right next to the being he loves the most in the whole of creation. He turns to Aziraphale to tell him this only to find the angel’s eyes on him already, soft and sweet. He swallows. 

“Angel.”

“Darling.”

If he had a human heart it would’ve swelled ten times its size. “I love you,” he says before he can leave the words half-formed in his mouth, “I hope you know that.”

Aziraphale smiles, the curve of it happy and sincere. “I love you too,” he whispers. “My demon.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth tugs into an embarrassingly goofy grin. “My angel.”

When the fire dies into little glowing embers and the cold finally starts to seep through the warmth Crowley’s sure Aziraphale had miracled up, he turns to him, head tilted at his friend’s relaxed sprawl. “What do you say, angel? Sleep out here, watch the stars all night? Or shall we retire to our bedroom?”

Aziraphale shrugs lazily at him. “What do _you_ want?”

Crowley wants to stay outside, wrap himself around him, keep them both warm with his imagination and his love. Instead, he says, “Anything. I’ll want anything you’ll want.”

Aziraphale turns to him with the sort of frown that means he’s not at all pleased with Crowley’s answer, but that he’d like to be nice about it. Crowley tenses, sitting up from where he’d been lying close enough to Aziraphale he’d fancied he can feel his skin. “I want,” Aziraphale says slowly, “you to tell me what you want.”

Crowley shrugs. “I haven’t got any,” he lies, trying to be as still as possible. Aziraphale fusses when he’s nervous -- Crowley can’t give himself away like that. 

Aziraphale hesitates. “If you’re sure-”

“I’m sure,” Crowley interrupts hastily. 

“Well.” Aziraphale gets up, patting at his vest and trousers as if there’s any way to make them tidy. Crowley chuckles. “Shall we to the bedroom, darling? I’d like to sleep on something much more comfortable.”

“Of course.” Crowley gets up, stretching his arms. His old corporation knows better than to creak, but stretching his limbs as far as they go has always been pleasant to him. With one last longing look at the stars, the fire, and their blanket, he goes on, “Lead the way, angel.”

Aziraphale kisses him just shy of his mouth before he retires to his own bed. Crowley thinks that if there were anything better than the night sky, it was this.

\--

They stay in and around the cottage the next day. They eat breakfast on the dock, listening to the soft music water makes early in the morning, and they lay down in the sunlight. It’s a funny sight, Aziraphale with his vest and shirt still buttoned up in the middle of a very warm summer as the sun beats down on him and his books -- but he doesn’t sweat, Crowley knows, he’s only as cold or as warm as he wants to be. So much control held tight in a very soft, unassuming body.

Crowley wants to rest his head on his belly, run his hands over his sides and his shoulders. He wants to feel Aziraphale underneath him, so strong and substantial and _alive_. He wants-

He wants a lot of things. Too many things. Greed, after all, is one of the deadliest sins. 

Lunchtime and Aziraphale is a reddish pink. His hands are a shade darker than the skin under his sleeves and, much to Crowley’s delight, freckles dust his nose and cheeks. He’s so pretty and charming, and Crowley wishes he can kiss him.

Aziraphale tells him he looks beautiful in the sunlight and Crowley feels so warm he jumps into the water and splashes Aziraphale and his books. The angel is cross, but only for a little while.

(Crowley knows Aziraphale knows he doesn’t mean to do half the things he does. It’s… him and his infernal nature, and Aziraphale- well. He loves him for that, doesn’t he?)

Aziraphale doesn’t join him in the water even though it’s deliciously cool against his overheated skin. _It’s terrific, angel_ , he yells, _it’s perfect_! Aziraphale only laughs, calls him a right fiend for going in the water with all of his clothes and socks on. It’s what he said -- as if socks weren’t an article of clothing and are really a separate entity entirely.

By the time dinner rolls around, Aziraphale’s skin fades into its usually pale colour, and Crowley finds himself missing his little freckles. He jokes about them in passing over the fire and plates of simple baked beans and sausages -- _so how many little kisses have you gotten, angel, for those charming little- little things? Those, ah, freckles_ \-- and when he returns from washing the dishes later on, there are pretty freckles all over Aziraphale’s face again. Crowley settles closer to him as they watch the fire crackle and snap.

The next day, Aziraphale wonders about the island across their cottage, and Crowley takes the rowboat out from the shed. It’s small, but roomy enough for them and for Aziraphale’s purse of books. He tells Aziraphale so, but the blond shakes his head, hems and haws about his books getting wet (sometimes, Crowley thinks Aziraphale _conveniently_ forgets he’s an angel with magic) or the waves looking particularly rocky (they don’t) or how his clothes will be soaked and dirty at the end of the ride, and _oh_ , he’ll definitely know, definitely won’t forget even if Crowley miracles them clean after (lie, Aziraphale’s clothes have gone through so much already, the dramatic sod).

So, in a truly demonic passive-aggressive manner, Crowley sets the boat by the dock, lounges in it, and muses quite loudly how pleasant and relaxing it is to lay like this on the water ( _but not in the water_ , he calls out to no one in particular, _all nice and dry_ ). Aziraphale sneaks him a look or two, turning his nose up when Crowley catches him looking.

It’s when Crowley’s given up in cajoling that Aziraphale stands up at last. He carefully chooses a book from the pile beside him before he extends a leg to get on the boat, and Crowley, who’s still gobsmacked that his demonic silliness has somehow tempted the angel, barely has time to scramble and make room for him. The boat rocks dangerously when Aziraphale steps in before Crowley growls a threat under his breath. It should know better than to cause Aziraphale any trouble. 

He’s so happy his cheeks hurt from smiling and when he says, _where to, angel?_ , Aziraphale only spares him a lovely smile and a _look_ from under those pretty lashes. Crowley urges the boat to move and it slowly floats away from the dock and to the island across.

Crowley tries his hand at rowing for a bit, thinking it’ll make him look quite handsome, but he gives up easily. He doesn’t sweat -- not when he doesn’t want to -- nor does he tire. _It’s more effort than it’s worth, is all_ , he tells Aziraphale, who only chuckles fondly and turns another page. He brought one of those -- whatsits -- murder mysteries wherein it turns out there isn’t really a murder or a mystery. Or there _is_ a mystery? Something about someone faking their death to- Hmmm. He can’t quite recall.

(He _does_ remember the first time Aziraphale’d told him about the book. It was shortly after The End That Never Happened, and Crowley had felt so exhausted and hurt and miserable and excited that he couldn’t stop trembling. Aziraphale had noticed, as he’s wont to do, and he had sat Crowley on a newly miracled couch, took his hand, and ran fingers through his hair. Aziraphale’s voice was low and quiet and each word brought a pleasant thrum through the demon’s heart and to his fingers, and Crowley, who hadn’t fallen asleep then, was certainly lulled into some temporary peace.)

This book isn’t one of Aziraphale’s precious first editions, although it’s well loved all the same. _Look at them_ , he’d said once as they’d walked by a modern bookshop, _always creating, always writing. So many stories told and so much more to tell!_

When there’s ample distance to their dock and a lot more to the island, Aziraphale places a hand on his arm and it startles Crowley enough that the boat startles to a sudden stop with him. Aziraphale, that adorable bastard, only laughs and settles back into his seat. He looks around them, blue, blue eyes reflecting the water, and there’s something- not haunted. Haunting? Nostalgic? Longing? _Something_ in them that brings a sad smile to Crowley’s face. 

“You alright, angel?” he asks, and Aziraphale turns back to smile at him, the something in his eyes solidifying to wistfulness.

“We’re alone,” he says, and Crowley understands. Aziraphale closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and tilts his head up to the sky, a gentle breeze ruffling his lovely curls. The freckles that had never gone away are a deeper colour under the sun, and there’s a pleasant blush on his face from the heat. He is gorgeous, Aziraphale, and he doesn’t even know it.

“Angel-” he starts, but when Aziraphale opens an eye to him, words curl in his throat. He wants to kiss him, touch him, let him know just how beautiful he is. 

“What do you want, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks again.

He swallows. “M-may I-” he stammers, “that is, if you’re- er, amenable to such a thing. W-would you allow me to- there’s no trouble if you, if you’ll refuse, really, I know I’m of the impatient sort. Hah. Demon, me.” There’s an amused smile growing in Aziraphale’s face, and it somehow embarrasses Crowley further. “M-may I- and tell me if I’m going too fast but. Er. May I…” He scratches his neck. By Satan, he is an unholy mess. “Nevermind, angel. It was just a thought.”

“I’d still like to hear this thought,” Aziraphale coaxes gently, and there’s a twinge of guilt in Crowley’s heart when he spots the not-murder mystery book bookmarked and set aside.

He wets his lips anxiously. “It’s no matter really, I just.” If Aziraphale refuses to kiss him because it’s one of those days, he will just _discorporate_ in embarrassment. “Can we stay here for- for the day? Just us.”

Aziraphale smiles sweetly at him. “Yes,” he says, “just us.” Something loud thuds in Crowley’s chest and he stands to fling an oar out to the lake. He watches it sink, satisfied.

When the day is just starting to cool into the afternoon, Aziraphale stands up. The boat rocks a bit but Crowley quiets it with a hiss from his own lazy sprawl. He’s reluctant to get up -- his legs are stretched across the boat, comfortably uncomfortable, and he doesn’t want to ruin this happy position he’s contorted his body into. Instead he spares Aziraphale a small smile.

With a firm nod to himself, Aziraphale unbuttons his waistcoat, shrugging it off his shoulders and folding it neatly. His fingers fly to his bowtie, untying it deftly. This he leaves on top of his book. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, top button first, and slowly reveals his shallow collarbones, his chest, his stomach, and Crowley thinks he must’ve fallen asleep. This _has_ to be a dream, he thinks desperately, drinking in the sight of Aziraphale’s soft figure. He tries to untangle himself from his messy sprawl, but he only ends up banging his knees and elbows against the rungs and sides of the boat. 

By the time he’s tidied himself up, Aziraphale is down to his pants, thumbs hooked to his waistband. 

“Angel,” Crowley says, mouth dry, “what- what are you- your _vest_ -” With a cheeky grin Crowley’s way, Aziraphale pulls his pants down, folding and setting them aside, before he jumps and dives into the water. Crowley yelps, steadying the boat against the ripples with another hiss. He scrambles to the side, eyes scanning the water. He knows angels don’t need to breathe -- neither do demons -- but he counts seconds as they pass anyway, growing more and more anxious the longer Aziraphale stays underwater. 

It’s been about two hundred and fifty-six seconds before Aziraphale resurfaces, smiling as water clings to his lashes. “Hello, old boy,” he says.

“Angel,” Crowley croaks, “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Aziraphale paddles around until he’s floating on his back. 

“You, er.” Crowley clears his throat. “You enjoy yourself?”

Aziraphale hums _yes._ “The water’s nice,” he says, voice pleasant and relaxed. 

“Would you mind if I-” Crowley pauses. 

“...If you’d like.” Another cheeky grin. “No clothes and socks this time.”

“Socks _are_ clothes,” Crowley grumbles even as he hastily takes his clothes off and shoves them against a corner. He commands the boat to stay put, and it hardly rocks as he jumps to the water with a loud _wahoo_! Aziraphale laughs, ducking down with him.

Underwater, Aziraphale’s blond hair floats around him like a halo. Sunlight pierces through the water like bright pillars behind him, and Crowley knows that angels are hardly the pretty, gentle creatures one finds in old paintings ( _propaganda_ , he calls them), but looking at Aziraphale like this, it’s no wonder humans think they are.

When they surface, Aziraphale calls him lovely, a hand gently moving a lock of red hair back from his eyes, and Crowley can’t help but splash him and dart away. This of course starts a race between them, and though they’re not as young as they were, they still gave it a good go -- splashing and laughing at each other like human children. 

(They never really were like human children at all. Crowley likes to joke that they were born middle-aged people, salarymen with tiresome jobs, and there’s a truth in it that makes him envy humans.)

It’s almost time for supper when they drag themselves up the boat, and Aziraphale dries both of them with a quick miracle. He asks for pasta for dinner as they make their way home.

\---

The next morning, Aziraphale suggests haltingly if they can, perhaps, or very briefly if that’s something Crowley would prefer, visit the small town they’d passed on their way to the cottage. Crowley’s too charmed to say no-

(not that he would be able to)

-but all the same, he grumbles _they haven’t got anything, angel, small one road town like that_ as he runs his hands over his oversized t-shirt and pajama bottoms to turn them into his regular, tried and true outfit. He’s overdressed for the weather outside, but he finds that it makes humans uncomfortable to see him in a jacket in the middle of summer and well. Uncomfortable humans make him happy. 

Aziraphale, bless him, replaces his usual shirt and vest with a short sleeved button up, although he keeps the bowtie. As an experiment, Crowley tugs at it under the guise of fixing it. The knowing look on his angel’s face makes him blush, and he purposefully leaves the bowtie slightly skewed. When Aziraphale doesn’t fuss with it, an odd pride blooms in his chest.

The town is a bit of a ride, yet Crowley insists they take the scenic route. He blasts through the roads, barely missing a car with a dog and a strapped boat on the roof, and when he finds a hilly dirt road, he whoops and turns sharply to it. He goes even faster, bouncing over little hills as he yells about how amazing Canada is, how they really should’ve gone here earlier. When Aziraphale doesn’t reply, he turns to him, and finds his eyes closely shut, knuckles tense and white as he clutches at the door and chair. 

He must’ve felt Crowley’s eyes on him -- Aziraphale opens his cautiously, smile trembling as he says _go on, have your fun, darling_. 

Oh, Crowley does love him so much.

Still, the next time he finds a regular road, he eases the Bentley easily to it, careful and smooth. Colour slowly returns to Aziraphale’s freckled face and he relaxes in his seat. 

The town isn’t as small as Crowley insisted it is -- it has more than one road, for one thing. Parking is easy to find; there’s an empty spot behind a restaurant, and although Crowley’s certain Aziraphale won’t be keen to eat at a _Boston Pizza_ , they stop the car there anyway next to a beautiful wide car. Crowley makes sure the Bentley is uncomfortably close to it -- far enough so he’s not that bad of a prick, but too close for the other car’s door to open fully.

It’s not at all like London, this little town -- there’s hardly anyone rushing off to anywhere, no angry pedestrians. The shops, while small, have the relaxed air that all kitschy tourist shops seem to have: postcards and pictures and little knickknacks everywhere with just a young attendant who is far too cheerful so early in the day. Aziraphale buys them both little moose magnets in an especially cheesy shop, leaving the cashier generous change. _Y’all chill_ , she tells them, and Crowley thanks her, even though he hasn’t got a clue what she meant exactly.

They stop for lunch at a little cafe. It’s run by a pair of old ladies -- Cora and Louise -- and they dote on Crowley and Aziraphale as if they’re a young couple on a date. They tell them about the park, about a hidden mysterious cove down by the beach, and about a forest close by where people have been disappearing. It’s a load of tosh, Crowley thinks, but they’re lovely and earnest, and they’ve given Aziraphale an extra mug of cocoa _on the house_.

There’s so much history in their wise eyes and wrinkled dark hands, the scars that climb up Cora’s arm. Every strand of white hair is a badge of their age, worn proudly and without fear, and there’s no shameful bend in their spines. Resilience is a gift humanity cherishes.

“But this is new,” Louise says when Crowley makes a smart remark about how everything in their little cafe is vintage, and she brandishes a shiny gold ring on her left hand. “We just got married.”

“Isn’t it too late?” Crowley asks, impressed. Humans have mayfly lives. 

“Oh, it’s never too late,” Cora chimes in. “You young things have all the time in the world.”

“Young things!” Crowley cries, affronted, but his eyes slide to the blush on Aziraphale’s face.

After bidding the lovely pair goodbye, they both stroll to the park. It’s smack dab in the middle of the town, sprawling wide in bright green fields. There are small artificial lakes and charming little bridges that arc a bit too high and too steeply, but are still quite romantic. There are ducks and swans and Canadian geese milling about, and Crowley, after a swift tug at Aziraphale’s shirt, trots to them, a bag of seed appearing miraculously in his hands.

Cora’d warned them about vicious Canadian geese, but as they bully Crowley for treats, he obliges them all the same. He adores these nasty buggers. _D’you think we can train them to love us?_ He asks Aziraphale, and the angel rolls his eyes at him. He hasn’t got enough imagination, Crowley huffs to himself.

When he runs out of seed and Aziraphale returns his book in his purse, they make their way back to the Bentley. The afternoon is just starting to cool, the breeze that seemed warmer earlier carrying the chill of night in its wings. Orange and pinks start to edge over the horizon.

Crowley is blathering on about the value of using birds as spies or assassins or both when Aziraphale stops suddenly, eyes glued to a storefront. Crowley stumbles at the abruptness and he coughs, hoping his own stop appears smoother than it actually is. Looking up to the sign above the glass window, a smile blooms across his face. 

“Miss the bookshop, angel?” he teases. 

Aziraphale laughs. “One doesn’t need to miss a bookshop to want in on another,” he says.

“Quite right.” When his friend looks up to him questioningly, he chuckles warmly. “You have your fun, angel.”

The bell over the door jingles cheerfully, and inside, it’s as dark and cheerless as Aziraphale’s bookshop when he doesn’t want any customers. Crowley can practically feel the complete and utter glee dripping from his angel. Quickly -- far too quickly -- Aziraphale’s lost to the shelves and unstable stack of books. Crowley, although having found the odd piece of literature fascinating enough to pass the time occasionally, has never been one for books, content with his own overactive imagination. He resolves himself to wiling away the rest of his afternoon on his phone. 

He sinks into the musty couch by the door, draping himself inelegantly on one side. Anyone coming in would have to walk over his long legs, but that really isn’t his problem, is it?

He’s just typing in a long, brutal post on Reddit on why throwing jars of something a loved one treasures absolutely makes you the asshole, when the couch dips and, as he looks up, a tall broad shouldered man settles into the other side. He glances over to Crowley, nods at him, and takes out his own phone and a pair of earphones. Slipping a bud in his ear, he scrolls through his music, stopping at _In My Time of Dying_. He’s got his music on so loud that Crowley can hear the first few beats of the song.

“Nice,” he says.

The man looks up, an eyebrow cocked. “What was that?” he asks in a drawling American accent.

“Led Zeppelin,” Crowley says, tilting his head at the other man’s phone. “Nice.”

“Yeah?” That somehow coaxes a smile from the man’s stern square face. “You a fan?”

Crowley shrugs. “Who isn’t? I’m more of a Queen man myself, but Led- only way I got my, err, him to listen to rock is to show him a song written after a book.”

The man chuckles. “ _Misty Mountains Hop_?”

“ _Ramble On_.”

“Ah.”

“He insists on it, but my car turns every record into a Queen album. She likes them too much.”

The man laughs. “I got no idea what you just said, but hey, my car is a big Kansas fan herself.” Oh, Crowley likes him. “So, you waiting for a nerd too?” he asks, tipping his head at the darker depths of the bookshop. 

“Yeah, my-” best friend, boyfriend, only person I’ve ever loved in six thousand years? “-my angel is gonna be awhile.” He clears his throat. “You?”

“Yup.” A soft smile spreads on his lips. “My brother and my… my angel are in there too. Probably gone forever.”

“Hah!” Crowley extends a hand. “Anthony J. Crowley.”

The man takes it, shaking it in a strong single pump. “Dean,” and after a brief pause, “Winchester.”

The name is familiar and it settles in Crowley’s gut heavily. This name holds an omen in it, he remembers, a name demons fear. 

“Met a Crowley before,” Dean is going on, oblivious to Crowley’s growing panic, “he was a big dick. I mean, I guess your name’s different -- _Crow_ like the bird -- but you know, it’s probably spelled the same or something. That Scottish fuck. Never could trust him.”

“Can’t trust the Scots,” Crowley says weakly. He’s got to get Aziraphale out of here. They can’t be here in a room with the deadliest of humans. 

“That’s racist.” Dean frowns. “Is it racist? Sammy -- Sam, my brother -- he’s a bleeding heart, he would know.”

“It’s all one race, you know,” Crowley says, waving his hand as if to encompass the whole of humanity, “the lot of you.”

“Ooo, hot take,” Dean says with a nod and a downward curved smile of approval.

"The hottest." Crowley fumbles with his phone, pretending to startle at a message. “Oh, sorry, gotta go, you know how it is. The- err, the, you know.” He gestures broadly at where the bookshop deepens. “He needs me.”

“Right, the SO, huh?” Dean winks at him cheesily, a friendly grin on a face demons have learned to fear. “Need help to carry books or something?”

Crowley laughs awkwardly. “Or something.” He tucks his phone and his hands in his pocket, trying to still their trembling as much as possible. “Well, I should- yeah.”

“Yeah, yeah, you go. I know how it’s like,” Dean says with a wave of a thick arm. Oh Satan, this man has strength written all over him. 

“Yeah, er. See you.”

“Actually.” Crowley freezes midstep. Blast, he really shouldn’t’ve turned his back on him. He turns slowly, careful to shift his weight so he’s ready to run at anytime. “You guys stayin’ around the forest?” Dean asks, a frown on his face.

Is he hunting them? “A-are you-” Crowley clears his throat. “No, er. No.”

The man’s face clears. “Nice. Good.” He nods to himself. “Stay away from the forest.”

“Sure. Er.”

With a final nod at him, Dean puts both earphones in his ears and settles into the couch with his eyes closed and a relaxed smile on his face.

Slowly, cautiously, Crowley scampers away. He shouldn’t be scared of a human, really, especially _this_ human. The Winchesters possess many demon killing things -- a legendary Colt with demon killing bullets, angel blades, and a knife forged by the Kurds -- but his status as one of the original demons leaves him quite invulnerable to any sort of demon killing nonsense. The flipside is that holy water absolutely annihilates him, but then again he’d had five thousand and a hundred something years dodging it and fifty years keeping some under lock and key for safekeeping. The most any of the Winchesters’ weapons can do is discorporate him. And, ugh, going back to Hell, down its deep damp hallways and through rows and rows of smug faces to beg for a new corporation-

(The grovelling, yes, that would be absolutely terrible, but being away from Aziraphale for however long Beelzebub deems cruelly appropriate- well. That would be _unbearable_.)

There’s also the rumour that part of the Winchester’s invulnerability can be credited to their pet angel, the one who rebelled and tried to overthrow Heaven and-

Oh. Oh no. Crowley grits his teeth as he darts from one tall bookshelf to the other, eyes frantically scanning the piles of books for his bright blonde angel. Shit shit shit _shit shit-_

He can’t lose Aziraphale, not when he finally knows what it’s like to love him and have him love Crowley back.

“Aziraphale,” he hisses. “Aziraphale!” There’s no answer forthcoming, although he hears a familiar hum from the denser and mustier parts of the shop. He scurries to it, trying to urge his steps to stay hushed. 

Aziraphale, that bastard, doesn’t even turn around, although his head tilts slightly in Crowley's direction. “Hello, my dear,” he says, turning a book in his hands. It looks way too heavy and way too big for his purse, but Crowley’s sure he’s already planning the logistics of having it sit on his lap with his gargantuan purse while Crowley drives around like a fiend. “Strange.”

“Indeed! Strange tidings… tidying on,” Crowley says, head whipping around. There’s no one listening around, but he can’t be too sure. Heaps of demons have underestimated the Winchesters before and they’ve all ended up as burnt husks. 

“This bookshop, Crowley,” Aziraphale looks up at him at last, a small furrow between his brows, “all of its books are about the occult. Now, I can appreciate having a theme as some sort of novelty -- too constraining though, if you ask me -- but this all seems all too specific.” He brandishes the thick book at Crowley. “ _Daemonologie_. An original and unabridged version of it, complete with how to slay witches and their demonic familiars.”

Crowley scoffs. “Demons will never deign to be witch familiars.”

“Well, I never said it was accurate!” Aziraphale says, affronted. He sniffs, tucking the book by his side. “The point is. The theme.”

“The murder theme.”

“Yes. Especially against all manners of creatures and demons.”

Crowley gulps. “Angel, we’ve got to go,” Crowley says hurriedly, hand pointedly extended to the exit.

Aziraphale’s frown deepens in worry. “You’re in an awful hurry. I thought you never minded _spooky_.”

“Yes, err, we-” he feels a prickle at the back of his neck that only comes from being watched. “We have to- to-” He places a hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back, his other hand still gesturing to where he reckons the cashier is. 

He realises his mistake a bit too late- Aziraphale recoils from him, arms hugging the book close to his own chest as he dislodges Crowley’s hand from him. Oh no, Crowley thinks panicked, this can’t be one of those days. “What’s going on, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks. He hasn’t started fretting yet, but Crowley can hear the anxiety in his voice.

“Sorry, angel, but I-I-I,” he runs a hand through his hair, “I’ll explain later, I promise just-”

“Now, if you please,” Aziraphale says, polite even in clear confusion. His hands are trembling.

“I’ll explain as we-”

“No,” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley sighs. He loves him so much he would die for him, but sometimes Aziraphale can be quite stubborn. “The Winchesters. They’re here.”

“The Winchesters-” Aziraphale’s eyes widen. Angels don’t generally fear the brothers, but Crowley’s always known Aziraphale is far more clever than the rest of the heavenly host combined.

“Yes, that’s why we-”

“I guess our reputation precedes us,” a deep voice says, and when they turn, they see a tall man with shoulder length hair and a fierce look in his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it makes Crowley flinch. There’s nothing of Dean in the man’s face, but he’s in his wide shoulders, the strength that radiates from him. Blood drips from a cut on his arm, and Crowley knows there are a great number of sigils that require blood, but there’s only one that can effectively banish an angel. 

Beside him, a shorter, stern-faced man stares up at Crowley and Aziraphale, quiet and assessing. Crowley knows who he is: the angel who carved a legacy for himself by sheer force of will, God’s Chosen, Heaven’s failure.

Aziraphale regards them both curiously, blue eyes scanning them. Where he’d been frantic earlier, he’s now stood straight in front of Crowley, shoulders back. He hasn’t seen Aziraphale fight in centuries, but he knows what this is: Aziraphale carefully planning and strategising even as he appears vulnerable and unassuming.

He’s hardly vulnerable, Aziraphale.

“Hello, gentlemen,” Aziraphale says, some of that cold British hospitality injected in his words. 

“This isn’t the time for politeness, angel” Crowley hisses behind him. Aziraphale doesn’t spare him a look, but he can almost see his shoulders tense in annoyance.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of this… ambush?” Aziraphale goes on.

“No ambush,” the man -- _Sam_ , Crowley remembers -- says. “We- _Cas_ just wanted to talk.”

“With an angel banishing sigil close by?” Aziraphale casts his eyes on the other angel. “This isn’t very sporting of you.”

Sam spreads his hands. “Just some insurance policy.”

“Clever. You’re banishing him too, once you use it.”

“I always find my way home,” the other angel says, voice low and gravelly. It grates at Crowley a little bit.

“You’re a long way from home though, aren’t you, seraph?” Crowley says from behind Aziraphale. “What, these boys got you on a lead?”

Eyes shades darker than Aziraphale’s turn to Crowley, and calmly, darkly, the angel says, “I’ve chosen my home.” Aziraphale seems to startle at this, and Crowley can’t help leaning closer to him just a touch. 

(Just enough for Aziraphale to feel he’s still there without actually touching him. Crowley’s somehow, over the last three days, cottoned on that at the very least, Aziraphale only needs to know that he’s there, warm and alive.)

“Your… home,” Aziraphale echoes.

The angel nods solemnly. “Heaven was never mine,” he says, “and it looks like it’s not yours anymore.”

“Oi!” Crowley yells, because whatever the other angel had said may be true, but Crowley would like to argue on account of the angel being a right prick. 

“What about you, demon?” the angel asks, turning his steely gaze at Crowley. “Where _is_ your home?”

“Demon?” Sam frowns. “Cas, you didn’t tell me-”

“It’s not of import.”

“It sure sounds like it’s very much of import to me!”

“Angel,” Crowley whispers, tugging at Aziraphale’s sleeve lightly, “miracle us to England before they banish you!”

Aziraphale, who’s been staring confusedly at the bickering pair, shakes his head. “No,” he says, his shoulders somehow losing their tension. “I think… I think we’re alright.”

“These are the _Winchesters_ , angel, nothing about them is alright!”

Aziraphale turns to him, a small smile on his face. He tucks the large, heavy book in one arm as he wraps his fingers around Crowley’s hand. Squeezing it gently, he says, “Trust me.”

It feels like all of his corporation’s blood has decided to rush to this hand, to the fingers that lay limp and surprised in Aziraphale’s. Shaking himself from his stunned stupor, he clutches at Aziraphale’s hand tightly. “Yes,” he says firmly, “yes.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale murmurs, before he turns back to the other pair, interrupting their bickering with a good old loud throat clearing. “Gentlemen,” he says much more warmly. “If you’re here to talk, do talk. My… demon and I have dinner plans.” Crowley preens.

“You and your- Cas,” the tall man glares at the other angel, “did you know about this? An angel and a- a _demon_? Are they-” he whips his head back to Crowley and Aziraphale. “Are you two _working_ together?”

Crowley shrugs. “Nah, we’re retired. Foiled the apocalypse, now we’re here to coast until the next one. You know how it is.”

“I really don’t.”

“Aziraphale,” the angel says, “Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate. And,” he nods at Crowley, “Crawley, the Original Tempter. You are both notorious.”

“Thank you,” Crowley says, just as Sam gasps, “What- Cas, we need to talk about _details_!”

“I believe,” the angel tells Sam, “this is what Dean calls _winging it_.”

“Castiel,” Aziraphale says, “you aren’t quite so popular in heaven yourself.”

Castiel nods. Bashfully, he turns away, a hand scratching at his neck. “Thank- I- you… remember me?”

“I remember everything,” Aziraphale, who’d forgotten that he’d placed his bifocals on his head the other day, says. Crowley smiles at him fondly. “You were in my first platoon, weren’t you?”

Castiel seems to light up at this, his blue eyes losing the sternness that was so intimidating earlier. “Yes, you fought bravely. No other platoon leader had thought to fight with their soldiers but you- you were fierce.”

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale patted his belly, “I’m afraid that’s a thing of the past. I’m hardly in fighting form anymore.”

“I’m sure you can still fight,” Castiel says eagerly, “a warrior never loses his skill.”

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not a warrior anymore,” he says. “As my Crowley said,” he turns to Crowley, smiling at him warmly, “we’re retired. Thinking of getting a cottage somewhere.”

Crowley feels his heart swell. “Oh, were you?”

“Somewhere far from the hustle and bustle of London,” Aziraphale goes on. “Just… just the two of us.”

Crowley flushes. “I’d like that,” he says. Aziraphale beams, and their linked hands pulse with the sort of warmth Crowley feels in his heart. He takes a book from a nearby shelf and drops it pointedly to the floor. Sam gasps in alarm.

“Apologies,” Aziraphale says to Sam and Castiel, “he likes doing something demonic from time to time.”

“No apologies necessary?” Sam says, still staring dubiously at the book Crowley dropped.

“I’m a demon, angel,” Crowley says, “I can’t help it!”

“Of course, darling.” To Castiel, Aziraphale says, “I’m sure niceties aren’t all you wanted to exchange.”

“No, I-” Castiel shifts uncomfortably. “I heard through angel radio that you survived hellfire and that you’ve cut ties with Heaven. They’re terrified of what your,” he slips Crowley a look, before he turns back to Aziraphale, “your fraternising has made you, and they’ve decided to officially cut you off from the Host. They can’t take your powers from you, not when you’re a Principality, but I… I know what it’s like.”

“Do you?” Aziraphale says lightly, even though Crowley knows it’s not been said lightly at all. 

Castiel nods. “The silence. All of that chatter gone. Just you and your own thoughts.” 

There’s a fine tremble on Aziraphale’s form now, too slight for Sam or the other angel to notice, but Crowley knows and loves Aziraphale best. He presses his shoulder against Aziraphale firmly, supporting him like he’s wanted to.

(He only feels a little bit gratified when Aziraphale doesn’t pull away.)

“It’s quiet,” Aziraphale says softly. “Too quiet. I suppose one doesn’t quite get used to it when there’s always been something there.”

Castiel nods. “An emptiness where you didn’t think there could be.”

“I don’t miss it,” Aziraphale insists, “not when Heaven isn’t- it’s not what I thought it was.”

“But it’s different.”

Aziraphale sighs. “And different can be good or bad.” Crowley squeezes his hand

“It’s the mystery of it that makes it frightening,” Castiel says, “the unknowing when you knew so much.”

“Well I,” Aziraphale laughs softly, “I’ve made it a habit to not know everything.”

Castiel smiles, a slight quirk on his flat lips. “Sometimes that’s for the best.” 

Sam’s phone pings and the taller man takes it out, frowning at the message he’s just gotten. “Ugh, it’s Dean. Cas, I’m gonna go calm him down. He says he’s dying of hunger.” Castiel nods, and Sam throws Crowley and Aziraphale a look of warning before he makes his way out the maze of books. Crowley shudders

“Terrifying bodyguards you've got there,” he tells Castiel. 

“They’re my friends.”

“That’s what I said.”

Castiel frowns at this. “I… guess.” To Aziraphale he goes on, “You saved me.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Did I?”

“Our first fight,” Castiel continues, “I was a young fledgling, barely able to hold a sword but with the arrogance of someone far more skilled than me. I’d rushed ahead, wanting to prove that I can be better, but I was quickly overpowered by three monsters. I thought I was dead, but then you- you shone so brightly with your fiery sword. You descended onto them, sharp and precise, and before I knew it, they lay in pieces around me. I owe you my life.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “I… I remember I’d- I yelled at you.”

“For my own good,” Castiel is quick to say. 

“I suppose.”

“And I want to pay you back,” Castiel goes on eagerly. “So if I- if there’s any way I can help out with your situation, I- well I’ve been there before. Repeatedly. You can- I’ve got-” He rummages through his pockets, hands emerging with a mobile so battered it makes Crowley flinch. “You can call me. Or text me.” Leaning to them, he whispers conspiratorially, “I’ve recently learned about these new things called emojis. They sometimes never mean what they look like.”

Satan, Crowley thinks as he takes the proffered phone when Aziraphale only stares quizzically at it. These two are quite the pair. “Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale says, smiling at Castiel warmly. “I haven’t got a mobile, but I’m sure Crowley…?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley says, nimbly typing his number in with a single hand. “We’ll get you a new one when we get home, angel, if you’d like.”

“I suppose I would,” Azirphale says, delighted.

Handing his phone back, Crowley tells Castiel, “I hope you’re better at this than he is. He still hasn’t got the handle on the internet.”

“Dean showed me that,” Castiel says. “I especially enjoy the pictures of guinea pigs.”

“Huh, what do you know.”

“Do have tea with us,” Aziraphale insists. “We- Crowley’s rented us a cottage by the lake and we- well I’m sure we’ve plenty of space for you and your humans.”

Castiel nods. “They’d like that. Well, Dean wouldn’t really because he’s- you’re a demon.” Crowley shrugs, _what can you do_. “But he… loves me, so he’d want to be there.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “I’ll have to prepare some extra scones.”

“Thank you.” Castiel passes a hand over his neck again. “When I heard you were cut off, I was worried.”

“Oh?”

“I was lucky I found my family,” Castiel says, “and they- we’ve had our disagreements, but we love each other, and I’ve never really felt too alone or vulnerable when we’re all together. And I was worried you had no one. But,” he nods at the both of them, “it seems you -- both of you -- have found your own home.”

Aziraphale beams at Crowley, the curve of his lips so sweet and lovely that Crowley melts into it. “I suppose we have,” he says.

Crowley, not for the last time, wishes he could kiss him.

\---

They don’t let go after, even when Dean accuses Crowley of having a meatsuit too pretty to be just some heavenly corporation and Sam apologises profusely for his brother’s dramatic antics as he wipes the banishing sigil away and Castiel tries to hug both of them, only to stiffly retreat when Crowley glares at him.

They do let go when they climb into the Bentley, but Aziraphale’s quick to take Crowley’s hand again, kissing it gently, before he settles their linked fingers between them. 

Crowley is so stunned he allows the Bentley to drive them home herself.

\---

“I supposed I shouldn’t’ve been surprised you’d get on with him,” Crowley’s saying, swinging his glass around until droplets of wine splatter over the couch. He’d miracled up some fancy patio furniture with the softest and most stain resistant pillows earlier, and Aziraphale had snapped them a prime bottle of ice wine. _Might as well since we’re in Canada_ , Aziraphale had said, and Crowley had scoffed, _this garbage, you know I’m not one for too sweet wines, angel!_ , which was of course a huge lie. He can’t stand eating sweets -- he’s weak for sweet drinks. “Rebels, the lot of you!”

(Their hands are still linked together, resting sweetly between them.)

Aziraphale hums happily around the rim of his wine glass as he takes a sip. “He’s a bit severe, isn’t he?”

Crowley laughs. “Understatement, angel. What a- a grumpy old codger. Can’t believe we found someone crankier than you.”

Aziraphale sniffs, lifting his upturned nose even higher. “I am _not_ cranky!”

“Angel, come off it. You once told a young mum she’s not allowed to touch any of the books lest she,” and here he mimics Aziraphale’s posh accent, “ _ruin any of the precious bindings with your child’s snotty liquids on your fingers_. Can’t even be nice to a pregnant woman!”

“She just wiped her child’s nose!” Aziraphale grumbles. “Bad enough she’d allowed him to run all over the place, then she wanted to handle a Jane Austen first edition. Ridiculous!”

“Oh yes, _she_ was being ridiculous.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, taking another pointed sip of his wine. The cheerful twist of his lips belie his amusement though, and Crowley takes it all in: the happy sparkle in his eyes, his warm blush, and the starry freckles still on his face. He squeezes his hand, and Aziraphale squeezes back. 

“Angel,” Crowley pauses. Aziraphale looks up to him questioningly, tilting his head. Crowley swallows heavily. “I- er. It’s, well.” He looks away, taking a long gulp of his wine. “S’pretty tonight.”

When he looks back at Aziraphale, the blonde’s little smile has changed into something sweeter, more regretful. “I wish you’d tell me,” Aziraphale says softly.

“Tell you what?” Crowley asks. 

“What you want.” Aziraphale turns his body to him, a leg propped up against the cushions. Taking Crowley’s hand to his lap, he clasps it firm between his hands. “I know I can be difficult-”

“Never, angel, never,” Crowley says because Aziraphale can be grumpy or cranky but he’s never been difficult to Crowley. It had been easy falling into love with him and it’s even easier staying that way. 

“I keep asking things from you,” Aziraphale goes on. “And you- you’ve never really asked even though I can see you wanting things. Why won’t you?”

Crowley looks away, tracing a length of embroidered vine on the couch. “I don’t want to push you,” he says quietly after briefly entertaining the idea of leaving Aziraphale’s question unanswered. But that- well, Aziraphale doesn't deserve that.

Aziraphale scoffs so loudly Crowley’s head swings back to him. “When have you ever pushed me?”

“W-w-well, the, er, the arrangement, for one thing!” Crowley splutters. “A-and the- the holy water! You never wanted to give me the thing, did you? Also the whole, you know, raising a potential antichrist as a balanced human, but it turns out he wasn’t the antichrist after all-”

“And I chose to do all of those things,” Aziraphale interrupts gently. “The arrangement, the holy water, spending years as a miserable gardener- I chose to do and be all of these. Crowley, please understand...”

“Understand- angel, what-”

“I chose these because I’ve only really wanted to be with you,” Aziraphale says, “even if I hadn’t realised it back then.”

“Oh.” Crowley flushes so deeply he reckons his whole face must be on fire. He takes his wine glass and pours wine all over the cushions. Curses, he forgot they’re stain resistant. “Well, I- you know I’ve only invented the arrangement because I was gone on you.”

Aziraphale squeezes his hand reassuringly. “I know,” he says. “And you waited for me, all these years.”

“I loved you,” Crowley blurts, “I still do. And I would do anything- anything to show you how much I do.”

“So will I!” Aziraphale tells him with a lovely smile. “It’s why I’m asking you: what do you want?”

“What if you’ll say no?” Crowley asks, unsure.

“Then I’ll say no.”

Crowley shrinks into himself. He doesn't think himself lesser for being a demon -- never really regretted being one either, since it was a decision he’d thought best at the time. But this, him being the original and greatest tempter, it makes something in him curl in disgust at himself. “Will you be able to?”

“You’re not as tempting as you think you are,” Aziraphale teases him. At Crowley’s sombre silence, he goes on, “And I know you fancy yourself something evil sometimes. Something not-nice. But I- I trust you as much as you’ve trusted me against those Winchesters. I know you’ll allow me to say no, and I know you’ll respect it. And just the same, if you want nothing from me, I won’t ask again.” _But you do_ , hangs between them.

Crowley doesn’t know why exactly, but his hands are trembling. He can lie, he knows, tell Aziraphale he wants for nothing, and he’s sure Aziraphale will retreat. But he does -- he wants a lot of things, he wants everything. And maybe it’s selfish to want so many things, but all the same, won’t it be selfish if he keeps all of these to himself when Aziraphale’s asked for them? He tips forward, slowly, slowly, resting his head lightly over their joined hands. 

“Darling,” Aziraphale says softly.

“I want to hold you,” Crowley whispers like a benediction.

Aziraphale relaxes, and his hands soften in Crowley’s grip. “Please do, my demon.”

Crowley pauses, cautious even though all he wants is to fall in Aziraphale’s arms. 

( _What if it’s a trick_ , he thinks, and he quietly shames himself for allowing the thought to cross his mind. He knows it’s a pre-conditioned thing, one that he needed to survive hell, but there’s trust and there’s _trust_ , and he _trusts_ Aziraphale with all his heart although he hardly trusts kindness.)

He kisses the back of Aziraphale’s hands, his surprisingly bony knuckles, his plump palms, and then he gently untangles their fingers. Carefully, _carefully_ , he winds his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, mindful that he doesn’t hurt him with just how much he wants to hold him so tightly. He rests a hand between Aziraphale’s shoulderblades, another on his side, and he shuffles on his knees so he can settle between his angel’s legs. Biting his lip, he ventures a look up to Aziraphale’s face, only to dart away so quickly after. 

(Aziraphale loves him, he knows this -- it’s a joyful fact he tells himself every morning ever since the Day that Changed Everything, but seeing it so plain and obvious on the other man’s face is- not unbearable. Something- something that makes him want to do something demonic to balance out the utter happiness waiting to burst from his heart.)

He takes a deep breath, and with a determined little huff, he falls onto Aziraphale so clumsily that they both almost fall over. Embarrassed, he settles them both neatly with a little pull, hooking his chin over a round shoulder.

At first nothing happens. 

Even though Crowley can feel his breathing chest against his, the little puffs of air Aziraphale’s taught himself to exhale like a proper human, he hardly feels alive. Aziraphale remains stiff, tense, and rigid even through layers of softness. His arms are limp and unmoving against his sides, and there’s a hesitance in the way Aziraphale seems to hold himself.

After a while, it gets too awkward and weird, and Crowley’s shoulders hurt from refusing to slope comfortably and heavily against Aziraphale. Crowley supposes he can’t ask for Aziraphale to hold him back, not that he’s already got this. He sighs and his hands that are hardly holding the angel as much as loosely resting over him, slowly release Aziraphale with a quiet rasp against the tan coat.

But before he can take them back to himself, something in Aziraphale melts. His head, that had been tilted away from Crowley’s, bows until it’s resting on the demon’s long neck. His spine bends into a sweet soft line, and his arms scramble up to Crowley’s shoulders, pulling him even closer hesitantly and desperately, until they finally rest clutching at his arms. There’s a quiet sigh against Crowley’s neck, and then Aziraphale leans on him, soft and trusting and oh-

Crowley thinks he’ll never tire of this.

He renews his grip on Aziraphale, trying to drink in as much of this as possible. He doesn’t know when he’ll ever be brave enough to ask for more, doesn’t even know when Aziraphale will allow himself and Crowley to be like this next, but right now with Aziraphale pressing a soft kiss on his neck as he tightens his hold, well-

Crowley’s never felt so utterly loved.

\---

Aziraphale climbs into Crowley’s bed later, and they lay together with their limbs tangled. Crowley never gets hot, but he feels a gentle, glowing burn in his heart all night.

\---

Crowley wakes up to Aziraphale staring at him from his chest, blond head tilted. His hair is lit by the early morning sunlight, strands so light and delicate like dandelion tufts, and his freckles are dark against the shadows of his face. Crowley lifts a hand, hesitating when Aziraphale only stares at him back. A sweet smile breaks across his angel’s lips, and he presses his face against Crowley’s palm, closing his eyes briefly as if he’s savouring Crowley’s touch. 

(Crowley resists dislodging Aziraphale to throw the bedroom lamp across the room. He hates the idea of disturbing Aziraphale’s sweet, quiet moments, although he’s far too often the cause of their disruptions.)

“Had a good sleep, angel?” Crowley asks, voice sleep heavy.

“I don’t sleep,” Aziraphale says. 

“Hmmm, you look like it,” Crowley teases, running his thumb across the soft skin under Aziraphale’s eye. 

Aziraphale opens his eyes to beam at him. “Oh, you mean old serpent.”

“Ah, you know you’re beautiful,” Crowley says dismissively, eyes counting Aziraphale’s freckles.

“Hush you.”

“You are!” Crowley says earnestly. “I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you, angel, demon, or human.”

Aziraphale chuckles softly. “You’re only saying that because you love me.” The self-deprecating accusation is tempered somewhat by the utter delight lacing his voice.

“I do,” Crowley whispers, “love you, I mean. Probably love you the best, even.”

Aziraphale’s wide smile gentles into something softer and sweeter. “I believe you,” he says just as quietly. “And I love you very much as well.”

“Yeah?”

“Some might say,” Aziraphale goes on, tilting his head in Crowley’s palm even further, “that you’re possibly the creature I love most in the whole world.”

“Including Heaven and slash or Hell?” Crowley ventures.

Aziraphale laughs. “Possibly,” he says, although Crowley knows he means _absolutely_.

“Angel, can I-” he pauses, swallows. “I want to kiss you.”

Aziraphale’s smile grows big and bright at once. “Yes,” he says, “please do-”

Crowley surges against him to kiss him, his long fingers carding through dandelion soft hair, and he feels his infernal heart beat loud and fast when Aziraphale kisses back. 

He thinks: maybe tomorrow Aziraphale won’t want to be touched, maybe he’d rather be alone with only the slightest whisper of contact between the two of them; maybe tomorrow, Crowley will be desperate and needy, but afraid, the mere thought of any affection sending him into a spiral of doubts and needless mischief. Maybe tomorrow, Aziraphale will be too scared to give as much as Crowley will be to take.

But for now, this lovely creature is in his arms, kissing him back with the same warmth spilling from Crowley’s heart. And he knows:

This is his home.


End file.
